


keeping warm

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amputee Sam, Brain Damage, Christmas, Curtain Fic, Future Fic, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Human Castiel, Hunter Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Law Student Sam, Marijuana, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Retirement, Sam and Dogs, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 21:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9032798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: After ending up injured in the fight against Lucifer, Sam and Dean retire to Sioux Falls. In which Sam is in love with a shelter dog named Captain, Dean is the new Bobby, and Castiel is a hunter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a BSGC Secret Santa gift for sunriserose1023, who asked for (among other things) Sam cooking, Sam volunteering at an animal shelter, and Sam in a career other than hunting. This fic got away from me a little bit, but I think I managed to include all those things. It's a tad more angsty than I wanted it to be, so I'm sorry for that, but I hope you enjoy it!

At four o’clock on Friday afternoon, Sam files the case notes he’s been sifting through and packs up his laptop and notebook. He puts his winter gear on methodically, piece-by-piece: fleece zip-up over his sweater, down jacket over that, then his thick wool gloves, beanie, and scarf. It might be a bit overkill just for walking out to his car, but Sam has a hard time warming up once he’s cold these days.

“So, uh.” He clears his throat. “I’ll be in tomorrow afternoon to help organize those files for the Miller case before it goes to court.”

“Nuh-uh.” Maria looks up at him from her desk, shaking her head before he even finishes speaking. “No way. You’ve been busting your ass for this firm since you started here. God knows how you find time for your coursework on top of being my secretary. You’re taking the weekend off. You deserve it.”

“Okay,” Sam says, uncomfortable at the praise. “Um, thanks. Offer’s still open though.”

Maria sighs and rubs at her temples. “I appreciate it, but I’ll be working from home all weekend anyway. Apparently my wife and kid feel neglected with the sixty-hour workweeks I’ve been pulling.”

“Oh, right.” He shoulders his bag. “See you Monday morning, then.”

“Be careful out there,” she says. “If you fall on my stairs I’m not suing myself for damages.”

“I’m good.” Sam unhooks his cane from the back of his chair and limps away, toward the door. “Thanks for the support though.”

Outside, the cold is so intense it stings his eyes and makes him cough. It’s already dark out and a few early stars are glimmering weakly in the clear sky. It feels like almost overnight the brisk chill of South Dakota autumn turned to the raw, numbing kind of cold that leaks through his clothes and settles into his bones. Sam has never particularly liked the cold, but these days it digs deep, flays him open and leaves the left side of his body as stiff and aching as it was almost a year ago now, when the injuries there were fresh.

Despite Maria’s jab, the steps down from the office are clear of snow and ice, and Sam navigates them easily enough. He shivers a little and pulls his scarf higher around his face as he walks to his car, feeling a lot older than thirty-four.

+

With half-frozen fingers, Sam fumbles the door to their ground-floor apartment open. A welcome gust of warm air greets him, smelling of cooking meat and spices with a heady undercurrent of marijuana. Sam shuts the door behind him quickly to keep the heat in, wipes his feet on the entry mat to shake the snow off. Painstakingly, he shrugs out of his coat and bends to remove his boots, mindful of joints that ache and refuse to move like they should.

Dean’s voice drifts in from the other room, low and indistinct. Sam makes his way slowly into the kitchen, following the heavenly smell. The crock pot is plugged in on the counter, steaming and simmering gently. Sam does an internal fist pump. Dean’s pot roast is one of Sam’s very favourite things.

Sam settles in at the kitchen table, pulls his laptop and books out and tries to focus on the notes he’s meant to go over for class tonight. Since September, when he started working for Maria, Sam has been enrolled at the local community college in a course for paralegal certification.

From the kitchen, Dean’s voice is clearer. He sounds annoyed. “You did _what_? Jesus fuck—Jackson, how many times have we been over this?”

Dean breaks off, listening. Sam can picture him sitting at his desk, massaging his temples wearily.

“Okay,” he says eventually, calmer. “The witness said it was the same two women, right? What did the coroner’s report say?”

Another pause.

“Yeah, I’d say you’re probably right. We’re dealing with a vetala here, which means you need to take a silver knife to its heart pronto or it’s gonna keep killing people. Hang on.”

Sam hears the heavy _thud_ of Dean pulling a lorebook of the shelf and onto his desk, the quiet shuffling of pages.

“Okay, uh. They’ll have a hideout where they’re keeping the victims while they feed. Probably somewhere underground—look for abandoned basements, sewer systems, underground tunnels, places like that. Work on finding it and call me back when they’re dead. And for Chrissake, Jackson, you don’t _ever_ go off on your own without telling anyone. Not ever. Not in this line of work. Getting stupid and cocky like that is exactly how hunters die every day. Got it?”

There’s silence, and Sam knows Dean has hung up. Dean shuffles some papers around, reorganizing his desk. The wheels on his rolling office chair squeak as he pushes himself back and stretches.

After a few minutes, Dean comes out of his office, rolling his neck side-to-side. In the fluorescent glow of the kitchen, Sam can see the scar behind Dean’s ear, disappearing jagged and pink into his hairline. He reaches over to mess with Sam’s hair on his way past the table, heads to check the timer on the crock pot. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sam says, attempting to fix his hair. “Smells good. Jackson and Elias in trouble again?”

Dean grunts his affirmation. “They’re trailing a couple of vetalas – _vetali?_ – in Delaware. Their first one. The kids are damn good hunters, but arrogant shits. Gonna get themselves killed at this rate.”

Sam hums, noncommittal. “Mm. Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Fuck off,” Dean retorts. “Work was okay? Still making the world a better place, one broken family at a time?”

 “Is that supposed to be an insult?” Sam rolls his left shoulder to try and convince the joint to loosen up. The pain is creeping up his neck and down his back, settling in his hip and throbbing there, deep and hot.

As much as Sam tries to play it casual, Dean catalogues the stiff movements with practiced ease. “It’s bad today? How’s your leg feel?”

Sam shrugs.

“You take your pills?” Dean steps behind him and settles a hand on his shoulder, rubs gently at the sore muscles there. His hands feel steady today, not so shaky like they sometimes are.

Sam flinches just a little at the touch. “Yeah. Already maxed out for the day.”

“You wanna smoke? Might help take the edge off.”

“Nah. Got class at seven.” Sam doesn’t like smoking weed anyway. It amps up his anxiety most of the time. “It’s just from the weather. The cold makes it worse.”

Dean snorts. “Figures. Happy goddamn holidays." 

+ 

It happened a week before Dean’s birthday. They were in Utah, and the January cold stung their faces and left their cheeks and lips chapped. Sam remembers that the icy wind through the cracks and gaps in the old warehouse creaked and moaned like a living thing, and the groaning and popping of metal beams sounded like a woman wailing. Above it all Lucifer’s rage-torn howling and Castiel’s broken incantation, the blinding glow of grace gone supernova.

Sam never minded the cold before it had that sound.

Dean doesn’t remember any of it. Dean was airlifted to hospital with his skull fractured. They said it was a miracle he survived at all. Sam was trapped in the rubble for thirteen hours with the cold in his bones and it was at least half that time before he realized he couldn’t feel his left arm or leg.

+ 

On Saturday morning, Sam briefly considers never getting out of bed again. The throbbing ache in his shoulder, hip, and knee has intensified overnight, and when he wakes up he has to take several long, measured breaths before he’s even able to roll over and dry-swallow a couple of the pain meds he keeps on his nightstand. He lies as still as possible while he waits for them to take effect, hopes he won’t have to call Dean for help getting upright.

Eventually, the edge of the pain ebbs enough that he can get himself up and hobbling into the bathroom for a shower. He undresses as quickly as possible, trying not to dwell too long on the swathes of scar tissue marring his body, or his left leg, which ends neatly a couple inches below the knee. The shower helps loosen some of the seized muscles down his back and into his leg.

In the kitchen, Dean is banging loudly through cupboards. “Where’s the damn peanut butter?”

“All we have is the organic stuff. It’s in the fridge.” Sam eases himself down into a chair at the table and ignores the expression of disgust Dean directs at him. “Mind throwing some in for me?”

After he gets the bread in the toaster, Dean pours Sam a cup of coffee, black with sugar, and sits with him at the table.

“Rick’s letting me work on that ’69 Camaro today. Says I’ve got the magic touch.”

Rick is the owner of the garage a couple blocks over where Dean works three days a week. Back in September, just after they moved to Sioux Falls, Sam had taken his car in for a fluid leak. At the time, neither of them had been able to fix it—Sam didn’t have enough mobility and Dean didn’t trust his own hands.

At the garage, the mechanics were working on an old Pacer coupe, which they had supposedly been wrestling with for an hour without success. Dean noticed them struggling, and told Rick, “Tell them to take out the battery and reservoirs first or they’ll skin their hands to shit before they even find out what’s wrong. You need a lot more room to work on those things than the manufacturers decided to give.”

Rick asked if Dean was a car guy and, after half an hour of talking, offered him work on the spot. He’s a good guy—doesn’t mind that Dean’s hands shake most of the time or that he frequently gets headaches so bad he’s out of commission for days. In some ways, he reminds Sam of Bobby.

After breakfast, Dean gets a call from Casey, who’s in Florida tracking a shapeshifter, and heads to his office with his phone tucked against his ear. Before he shuts the door, he pulls the mouthpiece away from his ear and says, “Say hi to James for me.”

Sam flips him the bird. 

+ 

When they moved to Sioux Falls months ago, the animal shelter quickly became one of Sam’s favourite places. It’s always warm inside no matter how cold the weather gets. Sam started coming here on weekends because the smell of soft, living things and the sound of barking and chirping and shuffling paws made him feel relaxed and comfortable. The shelter staff took notice of him pretty quickly – at six foot four and missing a leg, Sam is hard to miss – and asked if he would consider volunteering part-time.

James, the weekend receptionist, smiles brightly when Sam shuffles through the door. “Hey. How’s the sudden winter treating you?”

“No worse than usual.” The lie comes easily. Sam leans his cane against the front desk and bends to sign his name on the volunteer clipboard. “How are things?”

“Captain misses you,” says James. “He whines at me about it every day. It’s exhausting.”

Sam scrawls his initials on the form and sets the pen down. “I’m sure he’s all torn up about it.”

“It’s sad, really,” James says. “Maybe if you just gave him your number he’d stop being so broken up about it all the time."

Over the past months, Sam has grown used to this. It’s nice, being flirted with by someone attractive who has no expectation of reciprocity.

Sam hums. “Not a chance.”

There’s a group of senior dogs at the shelter that Sam takes out for an hour every Saturday. He doesn’t have the mobility or stamina for the kind of exercise young dogs need anymore, so instead he takes the sweet old dogs no one wants to adopt for shorter, slower walks. Sometimes, when the pain is bad like today, he loads them all in his car and drives them to the park instead, where he can sit and watch them play.

Captain is his favourite shelter dog. He’s a big, slobbery old mastiff with three legs, one eye, and heavy scarring on his face. His battle-worn looks are the reason for his name, which the shelter gave him after someone found him wandering, alone and collarless, on the side of the highway. Despite the rough life he’s clearly had, he’s a sweet, loyal dog and he loves Sam. When Sam takes the dogs out, Captain always stays right at his side, patient and steady, never trotting ahead of Sam’s geriatric pace like some of the other dogs. Today, he licks Sam’s fingers and whines happily when Sam collects him from his enclosure.

Sam loads the five dogs – three of them large, two small – into the backseat of his car and takes them to the off-leash park a few blocks over. At the park, Sam limps to a bench near the entrance, brushes the snow off the seat and settles in with his leg extended awkwardly in front of him so he can rest his hip and knee. Then he unclips the dogs and lets them run in the snow.

Captain hops up on the bench beside him and settles at his side, rests his heavy chin on Sam’s thigh.

Sam scratches at the velvety fur behind his ears. “You can go with them,” he murmurs. “I’m staying right here.”

The old dog sighs contentedly and closes his eyes.

Sam spends some time throwing a tennis ball for the dogs to chase. It’s cold, and the icy metal of the bench seat leaks through his layers of clothing and into his skin. Occasionally, the other people walking the path look at him pityingly. He tells himself it’s the dogs they’re looking at, not the cane leaning up next to him or the obvious stiffness of his leg. Overall it’s quiet, relaxing. The only sound is the dogs’ snuffling, the shuffling of their paws in the snow. After a while Lady, a sweet old toy poodle, gets tired of playing and curls up on Sam’s lap like a warm little blanket. The sun comes out and shines a little warmth on his face and the well-trodden snow glitters and sparks in the light.

Sam is half-frozen by the time they limp back to the car together, but the dogs are panting and drooling happily on his seats. He gives the dogs treats when he leads them into their enclosure at the shelter, kisses Captain’s smelly face and pets the top of his head and tells him he’s a good boy.

James says, “You’re breaking my heart over here, Sam. Just take him home already.”

“Nah. My brother doesn’t really like dogs.” Sam has come close to bringing it up with Dean a hundred times, has never quite found a way of getting the words out. “We can’t really afford it anyway.”

“Too bad,” James says. “You’re his favourite.”

“Is that true?” Sam asks the dog, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You’re mine, too.”

Captain wags his tail happily. 

+ 

Sam dreams of Castiel that night. It happens, sometimes, in bursts and fragments with decreasing frequency. He sees Dean, lying so still on the cold cement with his face as white as chalk. Sam tries to move toward him but he’s paralyzed, trapped and deafened by the wailing of the wind.

Then Castiel is there, crawling through the dust toward Dean, bright grace leaking like blood from his eyes and ears and mouth. His face is unrecognizable, grey and sagging and cracking at the seams. He crouches over Dean, cups his broken head in his hands while everything starts to go so white and loud it hurts and Sam has to shut his eyes tight.

“Sammy. Sam.” Dean’s voice is low and urgent, coaxing Sam steadily back to consciousness. “Open your eyes.”

Sam opens his eyes. The bright light is gone. He’s in his bedroom. It’s late. The only light in the room is the soft glow of his bedside lamp. Yellow-orange and warm. Not white.

“Hey. Sam. Hi.”

“Fuck.” Guilt and shame are coiling up tight in his chest like a live wire. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Dean says. In the lamplight, Sam can see that his hands are shaking and there are dark shadows under his eyes. “Wasn’t sleeping anyway. Heard you saying my name. Bad dream?”

Sam nods mutely, still tipping on the edge of a panic attack.

Dean says, “You need some meds?”

Sam can’t quite get words past the terror clawing at his throat. He keeps nodding.

Dean shuffles through his bedside table until Sam hears the rattling of pills. He tips two lorazepam into Sam’s palm. “Hold ‘em under your tongue, now.”

Sam holds the pills in his mouth and waits for his heart to stop pounding erratically. Dean sits with him and talks nonsense until Sam calms down, hoarse from smoke and exhaustion. That whiskey-rough rumble that used to speak threats and prayers and sing lullabies. 

+

Sunday dinners at Jody’s have been a tradition since almost the first week Sam and Dean moved to Sioux Falls. Jody isn’t a particularly great cook—it’s most often spaghetti and casseroles and roast chicken—but during the times they used to stop by between hunts, her food was heaven compared to the frozen dinners and greasy diner food they lived off on the road. Plus, Sam can count on one hand the number of people who have ever cared enough about their well-being to want to feed them on a regular basis. All three of them are busy during the week, but it’s nice having a standing commitment to getting together and taking a load off every weekend. Some weeks, when Sam and Dean want to cook for Jody, or when one of them is out of commission, they’ll do dinner at their apartment, but they always make it work one way or another.

As usual, the instant Sam puts the car in park in Jody’s driveway, Dean is out the door and heading for the carport. Under her weather-resistant cover, the Impala gleams like new. Even though she doesn’t get out as often as she used to, the car is still in mint condition thanks to Dean’s undying devotion. Arguably the hardest part of Dean’s brain injury has been not being able to drive—just one unfortunate result of the post-traumatic seizures he still sometimes gets.

As Sam climbs slowly out of the car, balancing the pecan pie he made earlier in his free hand, he hears Dean talking softly: “How’s my girl? Jody taking good care of you?”

“You talking about me, Winchester?” Jody calls, coming down the front steps to take the pie from Sam and kiss him on the cheek.

Dean smiles, straightens up and steps away from the car to fold Jody in his arms. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Come inside before you freeze,” Jody says, shoving the pie into Dean’s arms. “I’ve got casserole in the oven.”

Inside, Jody’s house is warm. It smells like savoury cooking and cedar and the scented candles she always burns, smoky and sweet.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she says. “Have a seat. Make yourselves at home.”

Sam bends to remove his boots and Jody’s hand lingers at his elbow, steady and too cautious. He soaks in the contact.

Jody offers them beer, and they both accept enthusiastically. Sam takes a hearty gulp of his – some rich, heady craft brew Jody favours. Dean takes a delicate sip and then sets his bottle down. It’s something Sam never could have imagined seeing even a year ago, before brain injuries and fine-print warnings on orange bottles of anticonvulsants.

Jody’s casserole is simple but delicious—chicken and green beans and macaroni all smothered in a creamy sauce. There was a time when Sam and Dean would have steamrolled through two helpings before they even stopped to breathe. Now Dean takes careful, measured bites, the same careful way he sips his beer. His hand-eye coordination is shot to hell, and while he’s come a long way with physical therapy and his work at the garage, he’s still always so careful. Always worried about embarrassing himself.

"How’s work going?” Jody asks after a few minutes of contented silence. “I hope Maria’s not working you too hard. You have school to worry about.”

“Nah,” Sam says. The drugs he’s on have turned him into a lightweight, and one beer in he’s already relaxed and loose-limbed. “She made me take the weekend off. Something about wanting to spend time with her wife and kid.”

“Well, it can be hard to find the right balance between work and personal time,” Jody says, and levels a pointed look at them.

Dean snorts into his beer. “Please, Jody. You’re the worst workaholic we know. Like you’d know anything about the work-life balance.”

“I’ll have you know I went on a date Friday night,” she says lightly.

Sam sits up straight, sees Dean do the same across the table. “No shit. With who?”

Jody takes a long sip of her beer. “The nurse who patched me up after my run-in with that vengeful spirit a couple months back. Christine.”

Dean whistles low, impressed. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” Jody says, caught somewhere between smug and embarrassed.

“That’s great, Jody,” Sam says. “Really great.”

“You boys are sweet.” Jody clears her throat, changes the subject quickly. “Now eat up. You’re both too thin by half.”

“Don’t take your empty-nest sadness out on us,” Dean quips. Jody flicks the side of his face.

“How’s Alex doing?” Sam asks.

“Oh, you know,” she says, waving her hand in exasperation. “Stressed about exams. Ignoring my calls about whether she’s coming home for Christmas. The usual. Have either of you talked to Claire lately?”

“Last week,” says Dean. “Sounds like she’s getting some of the bunker’s navigational equipment back online. Says she’s gonna see about re-engineering parts of it. Smart kid.”

"Yeah,” Jody says fondly. “Seems like things are pretty busy down there these days. Lots of activity.” There’s a hesitant pause, and then she says, “She told me she saw Castiel.”

Dean sits up poker-straight, face gone intent. “What? When?”

Sam drains the rest of his beer.

“I don’t know,” Jody says, still cautious. “Last week, maybe? You haven’t heard anything from him?”

“No,” Sam interjects. “Not in months.”

“Well,” Jody says. “That’s his problem, isn’t it?”

She takes a large bite of casserole and quickly changes the subject to a potentially supernatural case she wants Dean to consult on for the Sheriff’s Department later in the week. The mood has soured, and not even pecan pie can bring it back. Dean switches to water after two beers, but Sam puts back several more in quick succession.

Dean frowns at him after he finishes his fourth. “Think you’ve had enough?”

Sam ignores him, lets the alcohol work its magic on the constant, bone-deep ache in his shoulder, back, hip and knee. It isn’t until it’s time to leave and he tries to stand that he realizes quite how drunk he is. He can’t quite get his foot under him to stand up, and Dean has to haul him up by the shoulders.

“Shit,” Sam says. The room is swaying a little around him. “Can’t drive.”

“No shit,” Dean says flatly.

Jody has had a few glasses of wine herself, and apologizes for not being able to drive them home.

“It’s fine,” Sam says. “We can walk.”

Dean scoffs at him. “Not on that leg in this weather, you can’t. I’m calling a cab.”

Before they leave, Jody hugs them both tight and tells them to take care, the same way she does every week. She smells like wine and flowers, and Sam squeezes her tight.

In the cab on the way home, Dean won’t look at him. When they pull up outside the apartment, Dean helps him hobble up the path to the door.

Sam sighs, leaning on his brother while Dean struggles to fit the key in the lock with shaking fingers. “You’re mad at me.”

“Nah,” Dean says, righteous big-brother anger gone as he shoulders the door open and drags Sam inside. “Really shouldn’t drink this much on your meds though, Sammy.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Sam says, and it comes out whinier than he’d expected. “It just hurts.”

“Your leg?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. All the time.”

“Then you go to the doctor and ask to switch meds, man,” Dean says, steering Sam into his room. “Self-medicating with booze is bad news. Trust me.”

Sam isn’t really drunk enough to need help out of his clothes, but the alcohol combined with his mobility issues means he struggles to unbutton his shirt for several minutes before Dean knocks his hands aside impatiently and takes over. Sam gets his pants undone and halfway down his legs on his own, and manages to get his sleep shirt on just fine.

Dean’s hands hovers over the clasp on Sam’s prosthesis. “Mind if I?”

Sam nods and flops back against his mattress, willing the room to stop spinning. He closes his eyes.

“So this didn’t have anything to do with Jody mentioning Cas?” Dean asks, undoing the clasp and easing the prosthesis free from the remains of Sam’s leg.

Sam shakes his head silently.

“You sure? ‘Cause let me tell you if I could still binge drink without giving myself a seizure…”

“Nah,” Sam says, keeps shaking his head. His throat feels tight and his eyelids are itchy. “Nope.” His voice cracks just a little.

“Aw, Sammy.” Dean pulls the blankets up over him, a reassuring weight. “C’mon. Go to sleep now and quit worrying about it. I’ll bring you a glass of water.”

Sam hears Dean’s soft footsteps leaving the room, the _click_ of the bathroom light and the sound of running water. He feels floaty, untethered. It’s just the booze, he tells himself. Just the booze and the fact that his leg really hurts.

+

Sam drifts awake slowly. His bed is swaying gently beneath him like a boat in open water. He was dreaming again and the faded impressions are still flickering on the backs of his eyelids—the bright white light as Castiel’s grace was drained away, the awful screaming when the spell tore Lucifer from his vessel and the way the foundations of the building shook and cracked, beginning to collapse around them.

More sober than when he fell asleep, Sam fumbles his prosthesis on and heads to the bathroom. The hallway is dark, but the light in Dean’s office is on and Sam can hear his brother on the phone, speaking quick and urgent.

“Is he conscious? Okay, Jackson, listen—he’s been poisoned. The venom is paralytic and might be fatal, but it’s slow-acting. You have time to stop the bleeding first, so keep pressure on that leg. I’m gonna walk you through what you’ll need for the antivenom.”

Sam leans against the wall in the dimly lit hallway and takes several long breaths, listening while Dean flips through pages in the alchemy book.

“Okay, you’ll need some of the bitch’s blood—can you do that? Good, and get some more of the venom too. Says here it should be under its tongue. Got it?”

There’s a pause. Sam fumbles to the bathroom, doesn’t bother switching the light on before he turns the tap and splashes cold water on his face.

Dean says, “The last thing you need is dried sage—do you have any in your kit? Okay, good. Burn that all together and when the flame goes out, pour it over the injection site. Says here it’ll ‘cleanse’ his body, which I take to mean it’s gonna burn the fucker out of him. Got all that?”

Sam sways out of the bathroom, feeling a little less sick but still unsteady.

“Get him to a hospital quick if he’s still bleeding after, okay?” Dean says, firm but gentle. “Your brother’s gonna be fine, Jackson.”

Sam climbs in bed, closes his eyes, tries not to feel hopelessly lost on the waves. 

+

In the morning it’s snowing again, and the sharp, grinding ache radiating through the left side of Sam’s body is accompanied by the dry mouth and headache of a hangover. He could call in sick, but he’s gone to work in worse shape before, and Maria really did him a favour taking him on as her secretary in the first place. Plus, he already has to pick the car up from Jody's, so it isn't like he'd be able to stay in bed anyway.

Still, he’s seriously doubting whether he can even get himself upright on his own when Dean appears in the doorway. “Heard your alarm. You okay?”

“Yes,” Sam says. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Right,” Dean says, unconvinced. His hands are shaking badly and the shadows under his eyes look like bruises. Sam doubts he slept much, remembers his voice last night, low and level, coaching Jackson through keeping his brother alive. “I’ll make you some eggs.”

Through sheer force of will, Sam manages to get himself vertical, showered and dressed. In the mirror, he looks terrible, pale and strung-out. He feels guilty for drinking so much. In the kitchen, Sam sips his coffee and looks out despairingly at the snow piling on the ground.

“Be careful out there today,” he says absently.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “I’m not the drunk with one leg.”

Sam ducks his head, chastened, stuffs his mouth full of fried egg. “Touché.”

+

Maria is in a bad mood. Apparently she didn’t get much work done over the weekend because her wife got snippy with her every time she brought her briefcase out.

“She acts like I’m such a drain on the family,” Maria complains. “Like I’m the only one getting in the way of us all spending time together when she’s the one who won’t even be home on Christmas Day.” Then, muttered under her breath: “How’s that for ‘negative impact on our child?’”

Sam thinks he used to be better at saying what people wanted to hear. There was a time when he would have come out with something noble like _Making the world a better place always comes at a cost. You and Serena both know that._ Now, the edge of frustration in her voice sets Sam’s anxiety climbing incrementally upward, and he gets as far as “It’s tough,” before realizing he can’t find anything else to say.

Maria doesn’t seem to mind. She takes her glasses off, rubs the bridge of her nose, exhales heavily. “Yeah, I know. Shit, Sam. I shouldn’t be dumping this all on you. I’m just a little high-strung right now with this case. And Serena’s going nuts trying to organize Christmas at the shelter. Planning two meals to feed hundreds of people when you’re seriously short on volunteers is enough to make anyone a little nuts.”

Sam can recall a few Christmas dinners spent at shelters when he was very young. He doesn’t remember much, just that they were always warm and the nice ladies would give Sam and Dean extra dessert, and that John drank ginger ale instead of beer.

Some bit of Sam warms at the memory. “She needs more volunteers?” Sam says. “My brother and I would be happy to help out. I’m not very good at standing for a long time, but we can cook or serve—whatever she needs.”

Maria shakes her head fondly. “You’re something else, Winchester. You know that?”

“My brother and I spent some time in shelters around the holidays when we were kids,” he explains. “Nothing like a real bed and a hot meal when the weather’s this miserable.”

Maria smiles, warm and a little sad. “I’ll let her know you’re free.”

+

At two o’clock, Sam gets a text from Rick at the garage. _Hi Sam. Dean isn’t feeling too good today so I sent him home early. Might want to check and see he’s okay._

“Shit,” Sam says. “Maria, I have to go. My brother’s sick.”

“That’s fine. Be careful out there.” She says it easily, with a note of genuine concern. “Roads are slippery as shit.”

Snow is still falling heavily, and Sam drives under the speed limit the short distance back to the apartment. When he gets there, he finds the front door unlocked and Dean’s shoes discarded in the entryway. All the lights in the apartment are off and it’s utterly quiet.

Sam treads carefully through the hallway, making just enough sound to let Dean know he’s home. He finds Dean in his room, lying on top of his bedcovers in the dark, fully-clothed, a cold pack under his neck. His eyes are closed and he looks deathly pale, but his chest is rising and falling steadily, albeit a little too quickly.

Dean’s eyes open when he hears Sam approach, glistening in the low light. He flinches immediately at the sensory input.

“Hey,” Sam says, keeping his voice at a whisper.

The migraines started shortly after the injury, and Dean has been getting them every couple of months at least. The doctors say migraines might be triggered by extended periods of fatigue and stress—which are pretty much perpetual states of being for Dean. Sam thinks back to how wiped out Dean has seemed over the past few days, how shaky his hands have been.

He edges carefully into Dean’s room, eases himself quietly down onto the bed next to his brother. “Head hurts?”

He gets an infinitesimal nod in response.

“Rick send you home?”

“Yeah.” Dean closes his eyes again. His voice is a cracked whisper. “Threw up in the break room.”

Sam resists the urge to brush the hair off Dean’s forehead like a sick child, knows Dean most often can’t handle touch when he gets like this. “You take a pill yet?”

Another minute nod. “While ago.”

“Okay. Think you might need the injection?”

Dean presses his lips together and takes a steady breath. “Not yet.”

“Okay.”

The cold pack under Dean’s head has gone warm, so Sam gently dislodges it, goes to the kitchen and brings back a fresh one from the freezer and a glass of water. He settles the cold pack under Dean’s neck and stays with him while he drinks some of the water. Then he leaves Dean alone to rest. The migraine pills usually knock him on his ass for several hours, so he most likely won’t be up for the rest of the night.

After an hour spent on readings for his class, Sam decides to put his efforts into making soup. It’s hearty, healthy, easy on the stomach, and made in batches big enough to last them through a rough patch. Sam finds the motions of cooking soothing—chopping the carrots, potatoes and celery, adding the rice, chicken and seasonings and bringing it all to a simmer, letting the aromas fill the kitchen. It makes their apartment feel warm and homey.

Once it’s finished, he ladles some into a bowl and brings it to Dean. It’s been a few hours since he got home, and it’s harder to see now without the lights on. In the dark of his room, Dean’s eyes glow like embers.

"Think you can manage some soup?” Sam says softly. “It might help settle your stomach.”

Dean looks awful, but he sets his jaw, nods grimly and manages several bites. “S’good,” he murmurs—mostly, Sam thinks, to avoid hurting his feelings.

“I’m gonna go get some work done,” Sam says. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Dean nods and waves him away. Sam sets himself up in the kitchen with a bowl of soup, his laptop, and his textbooks and tries to settle in to a small mountain of readings, assignments and case notes. He hears Dean shuffle to the bathroom once, in the dark. Sam feels his eyelids getting heavy the longer he works. He has so much work left to do.

+

Sam wakes up in utter darkness with an awful crick in his neck. Falling asleep at the kitchen table is a bad idea for anyone, let alone someone steadily creeping into his mid-thirties with a bum leg and a lifetime of hard living behind him. The digital clock on the stove is blinking a blurry 1:37. Outside the snow has finally stopped and a blanket of fresh powder is coating the ground, sidewalk, houses and cars. It is very still.

Stiff and careful, Sam gets himself upright and shuffles out of the kitchen. There are wet footprints on the carpet, a dusting of fresh melting snow. Sam smells something light and sweet, like fresh spring air. A light breeze makes the hair on his arms stand up. The hallway is dark but the warm glow of lamplight is shining through the cracks around Dean’s bedroom door, which is ajar. Dreamlike, floating, Sam pushes it open.

Castiel is kneeling next to Dean’s bed. His palm is splayed on Dean’s forehead and his face is set in concentration, eyes closed. In sleep, the lines of pain creasing Dean’s face are smoothed out. The air crackles momentarily—a sudden charge of static electricity that raises the hair on the back of Sam’s neck.

Castiel removes his hand. Dean is still deeply asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily, easier. Then Castiel opens his eyes and looks up, to where Sam is hovering in the doorway. Even in the half-light, his eyes are intense.

“Hello, Sam.”

+

In the absence of anything else to do, Sam makes tea. They sit across from one another in the harsh lighting of Sam and Dean’s cramped kitchen. Up close, Castiel looks terrible. His clothes are wrinkled. His face is drawn and pale and there are deep circles under his eyes, like he’s been driving for days without sleep.  He looks undeniably older than the last time Sam saw him, and very human. When Sam passes him a steaming mug of tea, his hands are cold.

“How are you, Sam?” Castiel asks, taking a cautious sip.

“Fine,” Sam says, stumbling a little over his words. “I’m good. We’re doing good, Cas. Where have you been?”

“Everywhere,” Castiel says, setting his mug down and folding his hands in his lap. “I’m still hunting. Attempting to use what limited abilities I have left for good. I…” He trails off and falls into uncertain silence.

Sam clears his throat nervously. “Okay, uh. I have to go to bed. The couch is free if you want to crash. We can talk more later.”

“Yes,” Cas says. “I’d like that very much.”

He’s looking at Sam intensely, with some hidden meaning Sam doesn’t have the heart to tell him he has no chance of discerning. Sam makes the escape to his bedroom as quickly as possible.

+

Sam is the first one up Tuesday morning, and heads to the kitchen to make coffee, still sleep-hazy. Castiel appears to have taken his offer of the couch—he’s passed out on it still in his clothes, snoring softly.

Once he has the coffee brewing, Sam brings Dean a glass of water and a fresh ice pack, shakes him awake gently. “Hey. Cas is here.”

Dean rubs at his eyes blearily. “Huh. Thought I remembered him being here last night. Told myself it was the drugs making me hallucinate.”

“Nope,” Sam says. “How’s the head? Need any more meds?”

Dean considers the questions for a moment, cataloguing his body piece by piece. “No,” he says, sounding surprised. “It actually feels a bit better already.”

Usually, it takes at least a day before a migraine will start to ease its grip on him.

“Good,” Sam says. “I’ll bring you some breakfast in a bit.”

“He say how long he’s planning on staying?” Dean sounds cautious, mildly annoyed the way he always gets when he’s defensive.

“Nah,” Sam says. “No real way of telling with him, is there?”

Dean sighs and lies back against his pillows. Last time they saw Castiel was sometime near the beginning of summer, when the leaves were all brilliant green and insects buzzed constantly in the sticky heat. He barely stayed a day, restless and guilt-ridden, before chasing a lead on a group of demons down to Colorado.

When Sam returns to the kitchen, Castiel is at the stove, still sleep-rumpled. Sam watches him crack three eggs into a skillet with a little milk, then sprinkle ham, green onion and shredded cheese over it.

“Where did you learn to cook?” he asks, surprised.

Cas looks up at him, smiling tiredly. “Jonesport, Maine. I found work at a bed and breakfast there while I was hunting a siren in the area several months ago.”

He breaks off to cough hard into his shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” Castiel flips the omelette, seasons it with salt and pepper. “I’m recovering from a _head cold._ ” He spits the words out as though they taste unpleasant—like having a head cold is the greatest inconvenience he’s ever experienced.

Sam bites his lip to keep himself from smiling. “I made some soup yesterday if you want some. It’s good for that sort of thing.”

Cas seems genuinely touched, bowing his head and offering a deeply sincere, “Thank you, Sam.” He turns the element off, slides the omelette onto a plate and sets it in front of Sam. Then he busies himself cracking more eggs.

“Uh. Thanks, Cas.”

Sam finds himself at a loss for anything else to say. The omelette is delicious, and he eats it happily while Castiel makes a second for Dean.

+

Sam stays at the office late and goes straight from work to class in the evening. He hands in his assignment for the week and aces the pop quiz his professor gives out at the start of class. By the time he’s in his car heading home, Sam is exhausted. His pain levels, which were relatively low this morning, are creeping steadily higher.

When he gets home, Dean is sitting on the ledge outside the front entrance of their building. The stub of a joint is clasped between his thumb and forefinger and he’s blowing smoke rings into the freezing night air. He’s shivering a little—or maybe it’s just his hands shaking—but he doesn’t seem to be in too much pain.

Sam trudges up the path toward him. “Hey.”

Dean offers him the joint, which Sam declines.

“Cas still here?” Sam asks.

Dean nods, takes another hit. “Yup. He’s on a rampage. Cleaning all our shit. S’why I came out here.”

“Oh,” Sam says, leaning up against the wall beside Dean. If he tries to sit next to him, he knows he’ll never be able to get up. “How’s your head?”

“Weird, man,” Dean says. “I can’t remember the last time I _didn’t_ have a headache, but it’s just…” He gestures to the space behind his ear with his free hand. “Gone. I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel fine.”

“Sounds nice,” Sam says.

Dean hums his agreement. “Maybe it has something to do with Cas. Some leftover angel juice or something.”

Sam shrugs.

There’s a moment of silence, just the two of them standing out in a clear winter night together. Then Dean stubs out the joint and stands stiffly, knees creaking at the abuse. Together, they head inside, where Castiel is scrubbing the tile floor in their entryway with a brillo pad. The apartment smells strongly of bleach.

He stops scrubbing and looks up at them when they shut the door behind them and wipe their feet on the mat. “Careful. I’ve just cleaned that.” Then, pleased: “Sam. I hope your day was productive.”

Sam struggles with his left boot. “Yeah, Cas. It was good.”

Castiel still looks under the weather, drained and exhausted and a lot more like a man edging into his mid-forties than a millennia-old Angel of the Lord.

“Did you eat anything today?” Sam asks.

Castiel blinks at him. “No. I forgot.”

“Why don’t we have some dinner?” Sam says. “You can always come back to cleaning later, if you want.”

That’s how they all end up around the kitchen table with bowls of reheated soup.

Dean clears his throat. “You sticking around tonight, Cas?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, through a mouthful of chicken. “If that’s all right.”

“’Course,” Dean says. “I’m heading to the Sheriff’s Department tomorrow to consult on an investigation for Jody. She thinks it might be our kind of thing. You wanna come? I could always use an extra pair of eyes.”

"Of course,” Castiel parrots. He says it like the answer is obvious, like anything about him is predictable these days. “I’d be happy to help.”

After his spoon scrapes the empty bottom of his bowl, Castiel goes back for seconds.

+

Sam falls in the parking lot on his way home from class Wednesday night. One wrong step on a patch of black ice and his prosthesis slips out from under him and he goes down hard on his bad side. A year ago it wouldn’t have been a big deal—a minor embarrassment at most—but now it’s enough to ratchet the familiar pain in his left side from ‘manageable’ to ‘excruciating’ in a matter of microseconds.

The parking lot is empty, so he spends a few minutes curled up on the ground as tight as possible with the sound of his own ragged breathing echoing in his ears. Things go a little fuzzy after that. Sam is used to the chronic pain now—was dealing with it on some level long before the devil collapsed a building on top of him—but moments of particularly bad, surprising pain still sometimes spiral him away from himself, instinctively protecting him from old and blood-soaked memories.

That being said, he’s not exactly sure how he manages to get himself upright and in his car. All he’s really aware of is the poker-hot pain spiking in his shoulder and hip, throbbing and intense. Then, by some miracle, he’s hobbling up the path toward home, huffing out little involuntary whimpers every time he puts weight on his left hip.

He steps up to the front door and it swings open from inside. Castiel is standing there, brow furrowed in his perpetual expression of grave concern.

“Sam?” he says, alarmed. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Sam tells him. “Tripped. I’m fine.”

“You’re in pain,” Castiel says. “I heard you.” He gets Sam’s good arm around his shoulders and supports him over to the sofa.

Sam is still wearing his boots. “The carpet,” he says.

Castiel shushes, helps him lower himself down on the cushions.

Sam thinks he can feel all the bones in the left side of his body grinding together. “Where’s Dean?” he grits out.

“He went down the street to pick up some dinner.” Castiel settles gently onto the cushions next to him. “Sam, I think I can help.”

Sam shuts his eyes, takes an even breath and tries not to throw up from the pain. “Yeah. Okay.”

A hand settles on his left thigh, just above the knee. Another comes to rest carefully on his sore shoulder, mindful of the aching joint. Sam hears Castiel’s breathing, deep and slow. He imagines that his eyes are closed too, and that his face is a blank mask of concentration, the way it was in Dean’s room two nights ago when he touched Dean’s forehead this way.

The air crackles, bursting with static electricity. Slowly, in silence, a soothing numbness comes over Sam. The pain ebbs from his aching bones and dissipates quietly, easily. Incrementally, eyes still closed, Sam sinks sideways into Cas, the solidity and reassuring warmth there. It’s so comfortable.

Eventually, Castiel says, “Sam.”

“Whoa,” Sam breathes. “Thanks.”

When Sam opens his eyes, Castiel is watching him with poorly disguised guilt. Sam, who feels mildly sedated, can’t begin to deal with that expression right now. Instead, he tucks his head against Castiel’s shoulder, leans into him more fully. Castiel rubs soothing circles into his back.

The door bangs open and Dean steps inside, bringing a blast of chilly air with him. Sam hears the sound of him dropping his keys in the dish, removing his coat and boots, the crinkling of plastic bags.

“Hey,” Dean says. Then: “What’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” Sam says.

Cas, the traitor, says, “Sam fell.”

“Traitor.” Sam rolls his head on Castiel’s shoulder.

“What?” Dean snaps. Then he’s in Sam’s sightline, crowding up into his space trying to check him over for injuries—a panic-fuelled habit leftover from years of injuries on the job. “You hurt, Sammy? You need a doctor?”

“Nah.” Sam shakes his head. “Cas is helping. S’better than the drugs.”

“Huh.” Apparently satisfied, Dean moves back, into the armchair opposite the sofa. “So how does that work, anyway? I thought your mojo went away when the spell we used to gank Lucifer drained your grace.”

“Hm.” Castiel pauses for a moment, considering. “Yes, I suppose that is the case in many ways. I can no longer heal injuries, or teleport, or smite demons. I require sleep and food in order to function adequately, but I am not human. My very being is still infused with the imprint of my grace—an echo, if you will, which has certain effects on my surroundings. Animals dislike me, for example. They sense instinctively that I am not natural to this earth. Where humans are concerned, I have found that, through sustained contact, I am able to channel the remaining essence of my grace in order to provide certain forms of comfort, including pain relief.”

“Huh,” Dean says, impressed. “Cool. Thanks for the boost the other night.”

“I wish I could do more.” Castiel’s voice rumbles low and warm against Sam’s ear where it’s still pressed to his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sam pats his arm clumsily. “Don’t be.”

It feels like weeks since the pain has been this quiet. Sam thinks he could sleep for a year.

+

In the morning, Castiel is gone. Sam gets out of bed and finds a note on the kitchen table.

_Received word of demonic activity in south Manitoba. Investigating now._

“I guess that’s it, then,” Dean says when he comes into the kitchen and reads the note.

“Guess so,” Sam agrees, trying to sound less crushed than he actually feels.

And that’s that. Dean heads off to the garage and Sam goes to work and buries his head in mountains of paperwork to fill out and file. Maria senses something is off, tells him to stop moping and asks him to please confirm that yes, he and his brother really can help out at the shelter on Christmas Day. The pain in his leg and shoulder is there, but more tolerable than it usually is, like someone has applied a pleasant numbing balm.

Over dinner that night Sam says, “I forgot to ask—how did the consult on Jody’s investigation go?”

“Good,” Dean says. “Yeah. Seems like a djinn split town and abandoned its den. I put Jody in touch with Madison and Ella in case they need any help with the dirty work. They can track wherever it went once if left the city limits.”

“Good,” Sam says. “That’s good.”

“It was weird having Cas there,” Dean says. “Felt a little like old times.” Then, much softer: “I just wish–”

“Yeah,” Sam whispers. “Me too.”

+

Sam comes home from class late Friday night to find the apartment empty. From the state of things, it’s clear Dean has been here recently—the lamp in the living room is on and the dirty dishes have been washed and left to dry in the dishrack.

Sam sends Dean a text. _Where are you?_

It’s less than a minute before his phone buzzes with the response. _Roof_.

The roof is one of Dean’s favourite places to go to unwind, since it’s quiet and empty most of the time. He spends time up there when he needs to clear his head, or blow off steam—when he’s upset about something. This doesn’t usually happen in below-freezing winter weather, though.

Sam sighs, reluctantly leaving the warmth of the apartment and heading for the elevator down the hall. It takes him to the top floor, which leaves a single, narrow flight of steps between him and the roof. When he nears the top, the heavy metal door to the roof swings open and Dean steps down to give him a hand the rest of the way up. He’s at least wearing all his winter gear.

Stepping out onto the rooftop is like stepping into another world. The snow up here is untouched, crunching delicately under his feet when he treads through it. All the noise of the street below is cut in half, and there’s an unobstructed view of the clear sky, sprinkled with the tiny white lights of a hundred million stars. Up here everything feels closer, quieter. Sam can hear Dean’s breathing, and his own.

Dean guides him over to a ledge clear of snow, sheltered a little from the wind by a low wall. He’s drinking a beer, which he moves out of the way so Sam can sit. Then he takes a long swig and settles in next to him.

“How long you been up here?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. He’s shivering a little. “Not long.”

He pulls another beer out of the snow, pops the top on the corner of the ledge and proffers it to Sam. Tips the neck of his bottle into Sam’s so they clink together hollowly.

The beer hasn’t been refrigerated, and it’s warmer than the air outside. If it were warmer out, it would be revolting. As it is, it’s sort of nice. They sit in silence for a little while, Dean with his face tipped up to the sky. It’s really cold though, and Sam hopes he’ll say what he wants to say sooner rather than later.

“I just.” Dean sighs heavily, rolls his neck side-to-side. “I dunno. I get why he doesn’t want to hang around with us anymore, you know? He’s still fighting the good fight and we’re basically useless. But you’d think, after everything, he’d at least call once in a while. Let us know what he’s up to, where he’s headed next. Not show up once every six months, treat us like his pet project for two days and then split town again.”

“Yeah, but it’s Cas, man,” Sam says. “He’s a weird dude. Who knows what goes on in his head?”

Dean hums thoughtfully. “Yeah.”

They finish their beers quickly and head back inside to warm up. Dean goes down the stairs first, and Sam holds onto his shoulders and limps down behind him. They’re both shivering. When they get back down to the ground floor, they find that their front door is unlocked. There are wet footprints in the entryway and the air smells sweet, like fresh spring rain.

Castiel steps out of the kitchen. “Sam. Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean says, stiffening in surprise. “What’s going on?”

“I believe I may have misled you,” Castiel says. Sam thinks if Castiel was ever nervous, this is what it would look like. “In my haste to pursue those demons, I neglected to inform you that it was my full intention to return. I’ve also come to the realization that I’ve quite rudely been imposing on you without asking whether I was welcome to stay.”

This puzzles Sam. “Stay? Cas, of course you’re welcome anytime.”

“You’re the one who never even bothers to show up,” Dean mumbles.

In the light of their entryway, Castiel suddenly looks ancient, more battle-weary angel than man. “Let me explain,” he says, and then pauses for several long moments. “I have… struggled to come to terms with my new limitations, and specifically my inability to fully heal the wounds you both suffered when we destroyed Lucifer. The guilt I feel over this matter is only ever lessened in the times when I am able to help others. Through hunting, I have found that my own life can still have purpose. I thought it would be best for everyone if I kept my distance, as you have seemed to settle into retirement well despite my failures. You both seem happy.”

Dean snorts. “Sure, Cas,” he snaps. “We’re happy. Hell, I’m goddamn thrilled. We’re _alive_ because of you, you idiot. I might not remember it, but I’m still pretty clear on what went down in that warehouse.”

“Dean’s right,” Sam says. “We never would have made as far as the hospital without you. A couple new battle scars is nothing next to that.”

Castiel ducks his head. “I’m only just now beginning to understand that. Claire told me as much when I travelled to Kansas to see her earlier this month. She insinuated it was very foolish of me to be living out of my car when I had a home elsewhere. She was very firm on that point.”

“Smart kid,” Dean says shortly.

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean, then says, “Cas, we might be doing okay on our own, but I want to be clear that neither of us have ever thought we’re _better off_ without you.”

“If anything, we assumed you’d been thinking that about us,” Dean says.

“No,” Castiel says, looking mildly horrified. “Whatever I have in me of humanity—free will, and kindness, and the strength to do the right thing—I owe it all to you.”

“Well yeah,” Dean grumbles, softening a little. “That’s what family’s for.”

Castiel looks touched, and he stumbles haltingly over his words. “Then, I hope it wouldn’t be too much to ask if—when I’m not hunting, that is—if I might return here more frequently.”

“Of course,” Sam says, just as Dean chimes in with a “Yeah, Cas.” Then Sam closes the space between them and pulls him into a hug, rests his chin on Castiel’s shoulder and hangs on.

Castiel receives the hug about as well as Sam expected. His hands hover awkwardly around Sam’s elbows like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them, but he leans into the touch well enough. “Thank you,” he says, soft and with a note of awe, like Sam has the power to grant him absolution. “Thank you.”

+

On Saturday, Castiel accompanies Sam to the animal shelter. He looks exhausted and Sam tries to convince him to stay in bed and sleep longer, but Cas insists.

“Dude,” Sam says. “Animals don’t even like you.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Castiel says irritably, and won’t listen to any of Sam’s arguments about why it’s actually very relevant.

The dogs don’t actually seem to mind Castiel. A few of them are a little more hesitant than normal, but Captain tentatively sniffs the hand Castiel offers to him, then wags his tail and licks the fingers happily.

They take Sam’s car out to his favourite spot just outside of town, where the wooded walking trails are flat enough for him and the old dogs to navigate. With Cas and his leftover angel mojo there, Sam manages to walk the dogs farther than he usually does. Once, Sam looks over at Castiel and his cheeks are red with the cold but he’s smiling a little, gazing up toward the very tops of the trees.

Back at the shelter after their walk, Captain jumps up on Sam and snuffles at him.

“Bye, boy,” Sam says. “See you soon. Unless someone adopts you over Christmas. Which would be good, but also I’d be a little broken up about it. You know?”

When he straightens back up, Castiel says, “You share a bond with this animal.”

“Well, yeah,” Sam says. “He’s had a rough go of things. He deserves to have someone be nice to him.”

Castiel seems to take this into serious consideration.

“Sam wants to adopt a dog from the animal shelter,” he tells Dean over dinner. “It’s old, and it smells, but they’re very attached to one another.”

“I never said I wanted to adopt him,” Sam says, strangely embarrassed.

“Do you, Sammy?” Dean asks. “Why haven’t you ever said anything about it?”

Sam shrugs, looks down at his food. “I know you don’t really like dogs. And I guess I figured we had enough to deal with without bringing a pet into it.”

Dean says, “Huh.”

Across the table, Castiel looks pleased. 

+ 

Christmas Day is a whirlwind of activity. In the morning, they don’t even have time to exchange gifts before they’re heading to the shelter downtown to help set up for the pancake breakfast, which starts at eight. As soon as breakfast finishes at ten, they’re straight into preparing for lunch. The shelter is decorated cheerily with paper snowflakes and brightly coloured lights on strings. Maria and Serena and their daughter Katie are all there, and while Serena is clearly more than a little frazzled from organizing everything, they’re all laughing and singing together. It makes Sam’s chest go warm and light, the same way he feels when he looks over and sees Dean and Cas leaning over the stove with their heads tipped together while Dean demonstrates the correct way to baste a turkey.

By the time the lunch ends just after three they’re all wiped. Sam is looking forward to going home and sitting down for the rest of the year. When they get in the car, though, Dean says, “We’re going to Jody’s,” and Sam thinks that actually sounds like a much better idea.

Jody’s house smells amazing. There’s a glistening ham roasting in the oven and homemade shortbread on the counter. Alex is there, but Claire didn’t end up making it home for the holidays—December is one of the busiest months in the hunting business.

After they all eat more than their fill of ham and mashed potatoes, they sit in the living room and exchange gifts. Sam gives Dean a few new shirts to replace the ones with holes in them, and Dean gives Sam a rare book of Icelandic lore. Jody squeaks when she opens the envelope with two concert tickets in it—“For you and your special lady friend,” Dean supplies helpfully—and gives them a gift card for their favourite steakhouse in return. Cas insisted he didn’t want anything for the holiday, claiming not to understand the concept of exchanging gifts to celebrate the birth of Christ, but he gracefully accepts the colourful, patterned Christmas socks they present to him nonetheless.

Once they’ve finished unwrapping gifts and cleaning up the mess from dinner, Dean nudges Jody pointedly.

“Oh!” she says. “I almost forgot.”

She leaves the room and heads down the hall. Sam hears the squeak of the door opening, then something that sounds like bells tinkling and the quick scratch of claws on the hardwood.

Captain barrels into the living room, tail wagging exuberantly. He makes a beeline for Sam, hops his front paws into his lap and pushes his big head into Sam’s chest.

Sam laughs, startled. “Hey! Who’s a good boy?” Then he looks blankly over at Dean and Castiel, who are both smiling broadly at him. “We can’t have dogs in our apartment.”

“Nah,” Dean says. “But we’ll need more room if there’s gonna be three of us living together anyway. Jody told me about a house for lease out by Bobby’s old place. I thought we could check it out.”

Sam hasn’t lived in a real house that felt like _home_ since he was six months old. “Yeah,” he says, and bows his head to tuck it against Captain’s warm neck. “Yeah, okay.”

“Are you crying?” Dean asks, amused.

“No,” Sam says into the dog’s fur. “Nah.” Then he raises his head to look at Captain. “You want to go home, boy?”

Captain licks his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr [@withthedemonblood](http://withthedemonblood.tumblr.com).


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